The Fleet Street Murders (4 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

T

he next morning, Lenox was scheduled to visit his friend Thomas McConnell, a doctor who often helped on Lenox’s cases, and McConnell’s wife, Toto, a young, vivacious woman, with an endearingly cheerful way about her; the most scurrilous gossip, on her lips, seemed little more than innocent chatter. She was a beauty, too, and had married the handsome, athletic Scot though she was some twelve years his junior.

Yet their marriage had been troubled—had even at times seemed doomed—and while Toto’s personality had remained essentially the same throughout the couple’s troubles, his had not. Once bluff and hale, an outdoorsman with gentle manners, he had begun to drink, and his face now, though still handsome, had a sallow, sunken look to it.

However, things had for a year or so been better, more loving, and it appeared that now the couple had passed the rocky shoals of their first years and settled into a contented marriage on both sides, with more maturity and tenderness, more selflessness, after all of their early turmoil. The apotheosis of this newfound happiness was a pregnancy: In six months Toto would give birth. It had been to check on her that Lenox was going to visit the McConnells’ vast house.

When he woke, however, Lenox received a note from McConnell begging his pardon and asking him to delay his visit until he was bidden come. Lenox didn’t like the tone of the note, and visiting Lady Jane for his lunch, asked her about it.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said, worried. “Shall I visit Toto?”

“Perhaps, yes,” said Lenox.

She had stopped eating her soup. “Despite his request?”

“You and Toto are awfully close, Jane.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Will you tell me what happens?”

“Of course.”

After she finished eating, she called for her carriage and in time went to her relation’s house. Lenox was in the midst of a biography of Hadrian and sat back with his pipe to read it. He was an amateur historian and, without a case, devoted at least a few hours of each day to study of the Romans. His monographs on daily life in Augustan Rome had been well received at the great universities, and he had a wide, international correspondence with other scholars. That day, however, all his thoughts had been on Pierce and Carruthers.

Jane returned sometime later, looking ashen. “It’s bad news,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Toto fell ill in the middle of the night.”

“Good God,” he said, sitting by her on his red leather couch.

“They called the doctor in just past midnight. Thomas is worried to the point of utter exhaustion and blames himself for poor—what did he say?—poor medical supervision of his wife.”

“She has a dozen doctors.”

“So I told him.”

“Is it—” He could scarcely ask. “Have they lost the baby?”

A tear rolled down Lady Jane’s cheek. “It seems they may have. The doctors can’t say yet. There’s—there’s blood.”

With that she collapsed onto his shoulder and wept. He held her tight.

“Is she in danger?”

“They won’t say, but Thomas doesn’t think so.”

It was an anxiety-filled early evening. After Lady Jane had returned with her news, Lenox had written to McConnell offering any help he could give, down to the smallest errand. Now Lenox and Lady Jane waited, talking very little. At some point a light supper appeared before them, but neither ate. Twice Lenox sent a maid to McConnell’s house to inquire, and both times she came back without any new information.

At last, close to ten o’clock, McConnell himself appeared. He looked drawn and weary, his strong and healthy body somehow obscene.

“A glass of wine,” Lenox told Graham.

“Or whisky, better still, with a splash of water,” McConnell said miserably. He buried his head in his hands after Lenox led him to the sofa.

“Right away, sir,” said Graham and returned with it.

McConnell drank off half the glass before he spoke again. “We lost the child,” he said at last. “Toto will be well, however.”

“Damn it,” said Lenox. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

Lady Jane was pale. “I must go see her,” she said.

Lenox thought of all Toto’s long, prattling monologues about baby names and baby toys, about painting rooms blue or pink, about what schools a boy child would attend or what year a girl would come out in society. Lenox and Jane were to have stood godparents. He thought of that, too.

“She didn’t want to see anything of me. May you do better,” said McConnell.

Lady Jane left.

After some minutes Lenox said, “You have a long and happy future ahead, Thomas.”

“Perhaps,” said the doctor.

“Will you sleep here tonight?”

“Thanks, Lenox, but no. I have to return. In case Toto needs me.”

“Of course—of course.”

McConnell stifled a sob. “To think I once called myself a doctor.”

“She had every attention a woman could,” Lenox gently reminded his friend.

“Except the one she needed, perhaps.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself. Truly.”

After several more drinks and a meandering, regretful conversation, McConnell left. Lenox promised to be in touch the next day and went to bed troubled in his mind.

At four in the morning, as Lenox slept, there was an urgent knock on his bedroom door. It was Graham, carrying a candle, bleary eyed.

“Yes?” said Lenox, sitting up instantly flooded with anxiety about Jane, about his brother, about the future. A nervous day had made for nervous rest.

“A visitor, sir. Urgent, I believe.”

“Who is it? McConnell?”

“Mr. Hilary, sir.”

“James Hilary?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hilary was the MP and political strategist Edmund had recommended Charles speak with. What on earth could he want?

Lenox made his way downstairs as quickly as he could. Hilary was sitting on the sofa in Lenox’s study. He was a handsome man, with nobility written on his brow; he had a pleasant and open face usually but at the moment appeared profoundly agitated.

“Goodness, man, look at the hour,” said Lenox. “What can it be?”

“Lenox, there you are. Come, you must tell your butler to pack a bag. Some sandwiches would be welcome for the trip, too. Even a cup of coffee.”

“What trip, Hilary?”

“Of course—where is my head? We’ve received a telegram; we need to go to Stirrington now.”

“Why?”

“Stoke is dead.”

“No!” cried Lenox.

Stoke was the Member of Parliament for Stirrington, whose retirement was going to prompt the election Lenox would compete in. He was a rural-minded, rough-mannered old man from an ancient family, who loved nothing but to run after the hounds and confer with his gamekeeper and for whom retirement held only happy prospects. He had never been meant for Parliament, but he had served his time honorably.

“Yes,” said Hilary impatiently. “He’s dead. His heart went out.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yes, and in two weeks Stirrington votes.”

“Two weeks?” said Lenox blankly. “You mean nine weeks. I have pressing matters to attend to here—”

“Two weeks will decide the by-election, Lenox. Come, we must fly.”

CHAPTER FIVE

S

tirrington, which lay at the heart of the constituency Lenox hoped to represent, was a modest town of fifteen thousand souls, large enough to have several doctors, two schools, and a dozen pubs but small enough that cattle and sheep were still driven down the long High Street and everyone knew everyone else. To residents there the phrase “the City” referred not to London but to Durham, with its beautiful riverside cathedral, and as Hilary explained on their ride north, one thing Lenox must be sure not to do was speak down to them, or come off as oversophisticated, or glib, or slick.

“I’ll be myself, of course.”

“Of course,” said Hilary. Then he laughed. “Yet politics often requires certain attitudes. To adopt them one needn’t abandon one’s character.”

“Yes,” said Lenox uncertainly.

The trip there took hours upon hours. Durham County was nearly as far north as one could travel without reaching Scotland. The train arrived outside of town well after noon had struck, and both Lenox and Hilary—who had otherwise passed pleasant hours in doing what they loved, talking about the nature and strategy of politics—were famished. A small voice asked Lenox, too, whether he was now definitely beyond the distance at which he might have kept track of the two murders, and of course the great bulk of his thoughts were taken up with Thomas and Toto.

“To be honest, I wouldn’t accompany every candidate this far,” said Hilary. “But we’re friends, and perhaps more importantly, the balance is very fine in the House right now.”

“It is,” agreed Lenox. “I’ve followed the numbers on each side closely.”

“Every vote will see us closer to accomplishing our goals.” As two lads loaded luggage onto a carriage, Hilary stopped. “In other words,” he went on, “we need you to do your level best here.”

“To be sure,” Lenox responded and nodded with what he hoped was appropriate comprehension and solemnity.

Of course, what all this meant was that they wanted Lenox to spend money. The vast majority of parliamentary campaigns were self-funded or else funded by powerful local interests. Lenox was happy to lay out his own money, as his father and brother had. Still, Hilary’s message was, even if friendly in delivery, clear in intent. As Lenox already knew, their Conservative opponent, a brewer named Robert Roodle, was quite willing to lay out money on votes. Still, Lenox felt confident that the bank drafts in his pocket would be sufficient to argue his case (for broader civil rights and a firm but reasonable international policy) to the people of Stirrington.

That morning had been a busy one. First Lenox had dressed, as the harried servants packed; then the budding politician had written a brief but loving note to Lady Jane next door, begging her tolerance for his hasty departure, and a similar, more somber note to McConnell, promising his swift return and sending his dearest wish that Toto would recover quickly. Graham, it was decided, would follow on the evening train. Then a dash through dawn to the train station, followed by long hours of travel and conversation. Lenox was ready for lunch and a moment to breathe, in whatever order he could get them. Alas, the first was makeshift, and the second they skipped.

Their first destination was a pub, the Queen’s Arms, which dated to Queen Anne’s reign. They were going there to meet Lenox’s political agent, his chief local strategist and the man whom Lenox and Hilary hoped would deliver a large block of business voters, Mr. Edward Crook. It wasn’t a promising name.

“He’s the proprietor of the place,” said Hilary as they drove through the town. “Apparently from a long-standing Stirrington family, much respected here.”

Lenox was observing what he could: maids stringing up laundry, a small but fair church, a slightly more bitter cold than London. “Any family?”

Hilary consulted his notes. “Wife, deceased. No children. Crook’s niece lives with him and keeps his house, a girl named Nettie.”

“What’s Crook’s political history?”

“He helped Stoke win—but as you know that was no great achievement. The Stoke name means a good deal in this area, and Stoke has run largely unopposed since he first came into office. Before either of our times, of course. Undistinguished but loyal.”

“So Crook hasn’t much experience?”

Hilary frowned. “I suppose not much, but we have firm knowledge of his stature within the community. Apparently there’s a consortium of shop and tavern owners who listen to his every word. Shop owners, Lenox, win elections of this rural sort.”

“Yes?”

Hilary laughed. “By God, you’re lucky to run in such a place. My seat”—he represented part of Liverpool—“took a good deal more money and a great deal more maneuvering than this one will.”

Soon they pulled up to the Queen’s Arms. It was a distinguished-looking public house, with whitewashed walls that had black beams running across them, giving it a rather Tudor feel. An ornately painted, and really rather beautiful, sign depicted Anne with a crown and a detailed image of the world beneath her foot. There were stables to the rear of the house, rooms upstairs, and, from what they saw through the windows, a spacious one-room bar below.

They went in and found a hot, roaring fire at one end and a decent trade for the time of day; in chalk on a board were lunch specials (lamb with potatoes, hearty beef stew, hot wine), and Lenox’s hunger returned to him with a growl. A pretty, busy girl was coming to and fro from the kitchen, while a massive, red-nosed gentleman stood behind the bar, pouring drinks with surprisingly deft hands. He had on a bottle green spencer jacket, and a dirty towel was slung over each shoulder. This, Lenox saw, was Mr. Crook.

“Shall we have a bite?” Lenox asked with barely concealed yearning.

“Best ask Mr. Crook,” said Hilary sympathetically. “We’ve much work to do.”

“Yes, yes.”

They approached the bar, a wide, immaculately clean slab of slate, with glasses hanging above it and gleaming brass fixtures at either end. Like the outside of the house, the pub’s inside seemed the province of a fastidious, clean, and honest man.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a heavy northern voice. “Here for dinner?”

“I’m Hilary, actually. I sent word of our arrival. This is Charles Lenox, your candidate.”

Crook gave them both an evaluating look. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lenox,” he said. “I promise nothing, let me say from the start.”

“I understand.”

“Still, we shall do our best, and I daresay by the end we’ll see you through, and before long you can return to London and forget all about us. Johnson, another pint of mild?”

Before Lenox had a chance to deny Crook’s prediction, the tender was already sliding a pint glass of foamy, rich brown ale down the bar. It looked lifesaving to Lenox’s eye.

“Thank you for your help,” said Lenox.

“Well—and you look solid enough.” This Crook said rather glumly. “It will be difficult.”

“Do we have time to sit for a moment and eat?”

“No,” said Crook. “Lucy!” he shouted. “Bring a couple of roasted beef sandwiches.”

The pretty girl raised her hand in brief acknowledgment.

“You two must go—with money, mind—straight to the printers. We need handbills, flyers, posters, all that sort of thing—we need ’em before the end of the day. I’ve designed it all, but run your eyes over what he has. Lucy!”

The girl returned with two sandwiches. Without either of the two Londoners noticing, Crook had poured two half-pints of mild and pushed them across the bar. “You look peaky,” he said. “Drink these off and eat on your way. Six doors down, to your left. Make sure you bring cash. The stables have your bags? Good, I’ve got two rooms for you. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lenox. Mr. Hilary. All will turn out well if you trust me. Clark, one more pint of bitter before you go back to work?”

With that their introduction to Edward Crook was over, and the two men looked at each other, shrugged, and turned away, both taking ravenous bites of their sandwiches before they left.

“What do you think?” asked Hilary as they walked down the street.

“He seems competent.”

“Fearfully so, I should have said.”

“The sort of chap we want on our side, rather than the other,” Lenox added.

“Yes, absolutely. By God, these sandwiches aren’t half bad, are they? Look, this must be the printer.”